The Gentry
by Mornwey
Summary: Someone is trying to kill Vimes. But why? And what does the Royal Visit from Lancre have to do with all this?
1. Chapter 1

**The Gentry**

**Summary: Someone is trying to kill VImes. But why? And what does the royal visit from Lancre have to do with it?**

**Fandom: Discworld**

**Pairings: People can see any pairing if they're looking hard enough. Knock yourself out, people…**

**Warnings: Gratuitous violence and bad language**

**Disclaimer: I'd sell my soul to own them, but it isn't going to happen. **

**Author's Note: I have attempted to write in the style of the almighty Pterry. Needless to say, it didn't seem to want to happen**

The room was dark, secretive. A satisfied air hung over the long table that dominated it, as if a decision had just been made and the outcome had pleased everyone involved.

"So it is decided," someone said.

"The theory is simple – dispose of the bodyguard first, then the target will be all the more vulnerable."

"It won't be easy," another replied; "May I remind you that the man was weathered five attempts to assassinate or otherwise depose him."

"Which is why we are trying this approach. Others must be…dealt with first."

"All the other times…"

"Ah, but this time is different," a melodic but subtly wrong voice replied, and although the speaker could not been seen, the voice indicated a cruel smile; "This time _we_ are involved."

**XxXxXxX**

It had been a difficult day for the Watch.

Commander Vimes rubbed his eyes and glared at the report in front of him. There had been a recent spate of unlicensed thefts, and the Thieves' Guild had reluctantly admitted to being absolutely baffled, the Times had published _another_ of those stupid cartoons, and there had been a rather nasty 'suicide' up at Elm Street. Could the day possibly get any worse?

There was an urgent, worried knock at the door. Vimes sighed. Of course it could. It could _always_ get worse.

The door opened, and Vimes was greeted by the sight of Fred Colon in full panic mode, a sight rather distressing even to one accustomed to it. He gave the weary sigh of a man who know that his life is not about to get any easier.

"What is it, Fred?"

"Sir, a riot's broken out up at Five Ways! We just got the clacks in, sir!"

Vimes belted on his sword as he took the steps down to the main office two at a time. Riots were an everyday occurrence in Ankh-Morpork. So if Fred was this worried, it meant either that someone had been killed, or – worse – that Detritus was about to use the riot act again.

Gavin and Elsa Ironfoundersson, Carrot and Angua's six-year-old twins, were sitting quite happily in an out-of-the-way corner, having been given the contents of the evidence locker to keep them amused. Vimes felt, somewhere in the threadbare depths of his soul, that a watch-house was no place for children. He had tried to explain this once to Carrot, but it hadn't made any impression. Besides, from the muffled noises behind him he'd suspected that Angua was laughing at him.

The children were being raised collectively by the entire Ankh-Morkpork City Watch, and Vimes entertained cynical thoughts about just how deeply this circumstance would leave them scarred in later life. Both them and the watchmen – it was actually rather disturbing, the extent to which Nobby's maternal instinct had developed.

He ran almost all of the way, pausing for breath just past Phelan Well as various body parts pointed out that he really was too old for this. Five Ways was the irregularly-shaped plaza where there would have been a crossroads if Ankh-Morpork had anything even vaguely resembling urban planning, and it was packed with angry, screaming bodies.

The mob had a seething life of its own, and the shouting was deafening from streets away. The two groups of riotées were being forcibly kept apart by the Watch, and were none too happy about it. It took the combined power of the Badge, the Voice, and finally the infamous Vimes Elbow to clear a path through.

"_What the hell is going on_?" he demanded over the noise of the crowd.

"Not rightly sure, sir!" Cheery, the self-proclaimed-female dwarf alchemist, said loudly. A crossbow bolt whirred overhead and clanged off of a watchman's armour.

"Bring up the riot shield!" Vimes yelled. Almost the entire Watch was embroiled in this mess now, and he'd be damned if he was going to stand idly by while some idiot took pot-shots at them.

"Constable Bluejohn's on leave, sir!" Cheery replied frantically. She glanced nervously at the building to their left, on the junction of Quarry Lane and The Pitts – smoke was rising steadily from a large hole in its roof; "Sir, I really think we shouldn't be he-"

The world exploded.

All the glass blew out of the windows in every building for a hundred yards, and chunks of masonry shot skywards. Everyone fast enough – that is to say, the more experienced watchmen and those far enough away to see it coming – flung themselves flat on the ground. The rest were blasted off their feet. There was a moment of silence as everyone frantically counted their limbs and compared the total with previous figures. Then the screaming started.

Vimes cautiously raised his head, dislodging a minor avalanche of debris. He had managed to get down in time to avoid the worst of the explosion, but his arms were pretty badly cut up and part of a roof beam had landed heavily and painfully across his chest. He got unsteadily to his feet, shaking his head in a vain attempt to clear the ringing from his ears.

All around him, people were slowly gathering their scattered wits. Cheery cautiously emerged from behind the shelter of Detritus, while Nobby – having picked himself up – was now picking up any small items of value that happened to belong to anyone too unconscious or dead to object. Angua was already on her feet, nursing a burnt shoulder. People had now been shaken up to the point that they would obey anyone who sounded like they knew what was going on. Vimes was policeman enough to take immediate advantage of this, and began barking orders.

"Reg, get that building roped off! No-one goes near it until Cheery and Angua have had a look around. Visit, run up to the free hospital and get any spare doctors down here. And the rest of you, get these people organised – I want bucket chains to put out the fires, and every free pair of hands helping the wounded! Anyone who wants to argue with you, arrest them!"

It was then that a _second_ crossbow bolt came out of nowhere.

This was not the random potshot of an amateur. This was a professional aiming to kill. But they had reckoned without Vimes' survival skills, honed to a razor edge by a lifetime on the streets. His reflexes saved him – he dived as the crossbow bolt whirred through the air, and the shot that should have taken him in the throat hit his shoulder instead. Another bolt shattered on the bulk of Detritus as the troll took up position as a shield. People were fleeing the area out of a wholly sensible regard for their own skins as angry watchmen ran for the rooftop on which the would-be assassin was perched. Swearing furiously under his breath, Vimes struggled to sit up. He was losing blood at a rather alarming rate.

"Lie still, sir – that's a nasty cut you've got there. Buggy! Go back to Pseudopolis Yard and fetch Igor!"

Vimes struggled to focus his brain; "Carrot?"

"Yes sir. Try not to move too much, sir, you're bleeding quite badly."

He tried to say something scathing and devastatingly witty, but his head was beginning to spin, so he gave up. The area was now populated only by Watchmen and corpses. No-one, even with a Morporkian taste for street theatre, was stupid enough to hang around this many angry watchmen.

Three figures, all but invisible to one who didn't know what to look for, were watching the scene with interest.

"Curious," one said; "That a being so…common…could inspire such loyalty."

"The man has no grace," another replied with some contempt; "No _style_."

"Ah, but can you not sense it?" the third said; "Have we not watched these _watchmen_ for some time now? They risk their lives to protect him in the certain knowledge that he would do the same for them were their positions reversed."

"Curious," the first repeated; "Completely against every self-preservation instinct, and yet…he is still alive."

"Not for long…"

**TO BE CONTINUED**

**Reviews make me feel all warm and happy **

**I'm soory about the formatting, it went all screwy when I uploaded it...**


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary: **

**Fandom: Discworld**

**Pairings: People can see any pairing if they're looking hard enough. Knock yourself out, people…**

**Warnings: Gratuitous violence and bad language**

**Disclaimer: I'd sell my soul to own them, but it isn't going to happen. **

**Author's Note: I have attempted to write in the style of the almighty Pterry. Needless to say, it didn't seem to want to happen**

Her royal highness, Princess Esmeralda Margaret Note Spelling the First of Lancre, was sulking.

Sulking, as her mother would doubtless have told her, was a very unladylike thing to do. But Esmeralda Margaret – Esme to her friends – felt that she was completely justified. For a start, she had been sitting in the same battered, cabbage-smelling coach for almost four weeks now. And secondly, she was wearing a dress. It was made of pale pink silk. It had _ruffles_.

Most nine-year-old girls would have killed – or at least bitten, scratched, and otherwise thrown a tantrum – to be able to wear a pink silk dress with ruffles. But Esme hated dresses, especially silk ones with ruffles, and let's not even go _into_ her feelings on the colour pink. Her usual wear was the sort of thing more likely to be seen on a stable boy than a princess, since she spent most of her time roaming the moors and climbing trees with her two best friends, Indolence Carter and 'Little Johnny' Hopwood. The fact that her closest friends were both boys didn't seem at all unusual to Esme.

But the deepest reason Esme hated dresses – especially in pink – was that she didn't want to be a princess. She wanted to be a witch like her mother…but not exactly like her mother, because her mother was a wet hen. No, Esme wanted to be a witch like her namesake, Granny Weatherwax. Granny Weatherwax was clever and tough. Granny Weatherwax – as far as Esme was concerned – knew everything. And Granny Weatherwax had told her to stop whining and get in the coach with her parents.

But all in all, only one thing prevented Esme from climbing out of the coach window and hitching a ride back to Lancre. That was their destination.

They were going to Ankh-Morpork.

It was a state visit or something of that order, but Esme could deal with the ceremonies if it meant she could see the largest and most famous city on the Disc. They were less than a day's travel away, and although Esme was trying hard to keep sulking, her actual manner was growing progressively closer to bouncing in excitement.

"Now, you have to behave."

"Yes mother."

"And act ladylike."

"Yes mother."

"And remember your etiquette lessons."

"Yes mother."

"And do not juggle the cheese."

"Yes mo- wait, what?"

"You weren't listening to me, were you Esme?"

"No mother…sorry mother."

The coach trundled along, and Esme finally gave in to her outer child and allowed herself to bounce a little in excitement. Her mother laughed, and her father smiled indulgently. Esme would have been spoiled rotten, but King Verence had discovered some years ago that it was almost impossible to spoil someone whose only desires involved mud in one form or another. The coach finally reached the gates of Ankh-Morpork – although Esme thought it a little odd that a city with no real _walls_ in the formal sense of the word would have gates – and she gave a final squeal of delight before resigning herself to looking dignified and royal.

They were met by a detachment of the City Watch to be escorted to the Palace. Esme was enthralled, staring out of the windows in wonder. There had to be more people in one street than lived in the whole of Lancre! And the noise – she had never heard anything like it! The seething, roaring, constant noise of a hundred thousand people living their lives. She was so fascinated that their arrival took her a little by surprise.

Apparently some sort of ball was being held in honour of their arrival. Esme had never been to such an affair before, but she had been mercilessly drilled in etiquette ever since she was old enough to curtsey without falling over, and she had a fairly good grasp of the theory. A herald announced them at the top of the sweeping stairs leading into the ballroom.

"King Verence the Second, Queen Magrat, and Princess Esmeralda Margaret of Lancre!"

Esme descended the stairs a little behind her parents, trying to remember the protocol. There was a while of milling about while everyone talked to everyone else, and a buffet table, and then…possibly dancing? Yes, that sounded about right. Her parents were being introduced to important people by other important people, but no-one seemed to want to talk to Esme. She took this as a blessing and began to wander around, watching in silence.

Her eye was caught by a boy around her own age standing next to a large woman in a light blue ballgown. He seemed to feel her eyes on him, because he turned his head and looked straight at her. She decided to go over.

"Hello…" he took in her dress and dainty little silver crown; "…Your Highness." He bowed a little awkwardly and the woman – presumably his mother – beamed with pride before returning to whatever conversation she was involved in.

"Hello," Esme curtsied with rather more grace. They eyed each other speculatively for a moment before reaching a mutual decision that some mandatory requirement for formality had been met. They both relaxed imperceptibly.

"I'm Esme," she said.

"Sam," he replied, extending a hand. She shook it. There was a moment of silence in which Esme – in a bad habit that had never been broken – eavesdropped on nearby conversations.

"I see that Sir Samuel has once again decided not to grace us with his presence," a man said. Esme stared at him in fascination – she hadn't realised before that hate at first sight really was possible.

"I'm sure he has a very good reason for not being here, Lord Rust," the woman who was almost definitely Sam's mother said with a smile that didn't extend to her eyes. She glanced sideways at Esme and seized on her as an excuse to stop talking to Lord Rust. She gave a maternal smile; "Who is your friend, Sam?"

"Uh…" he hesitated as he realised that he couldn't introduce a noble from a potentially very important ally or enemy of the city as 'Esme'. She took pity on him.

"Princess Esmeralda Margaret of Lancre," she replied for him, curtseying again. As always, she glossed over her more unfortunate middle names.

"I am Lady Sybil, the Duchess of Ankh," the woman said, "And this is my son, Sam. Are you here with your parents, dear?"

"Yes, your grace," Esme replied politely. The obnoxious man apparently known as 'Lord Rust' chose this moment to trap Lady Sybil in conversation once more. Her face brightened considerably as she spotted someone over his shoulder.

"Oh, it's Captain Angua," she said brightly, "Do excuse me, Ronnie….oh my."

Esme was resigned to the fact that she would never be pretty. She could get by on 'cute' until she was about twelve, but beyond that 'plain and decently well-scrubbed' would have to do. It didn't really bother her…except for at moments like this. Walking over to them was the most beautiful woman Esme had ever seen. She had ash-blonde hair, delicately shaped amber eyes, and the grace with which she moved would have made any Roundworld supermodel weep with despair.

It was only after the initial surge of jealousy that details registered with Esme – that she was dressed in battered watch armour, covered in ash and streaked with dirt and blood, and her shoulder was badly burnt. She cleared her throat and took her helmet off respectfully, but her manner did not show any kind of deference. There was in fact the utter poise most people would have associated with the more confident type of aristocrat, but Esme associated with witches.

"Ah, Captain," Lord Rust said with a certain disdain; "Are you by any chance bearing Sir Samuel's latest reason for not joining us?"

The look on said captain's face suggested that she was seeing inside her head a very detailed mental image of herself inflicting a slow and painful death on Lord Rust. The look went on for several seconds longer than was comfortable, then she proceeded to ignore him; "Lady Sybil, I'm sorry to have to tell you that Commander Vimes has been injured in a riot at Five Roads."

Her eyes widened, and Sam suddenly looked about four years old; "How?" she said, "What happened?"

"Someone took a shot at him with a crossbow – hit him in the shoulder. We've taken him back to the Yard and Igor's seeing what he can do." Sybil appeared momentarily speechless, but she rallied magnificently.

"Take me to him," she said, her voice steady. Angua nodded.

"What's happening?" Esme whispered to Sam.

"My father's the commander of the Watch," he replied, admirably evenly considering he looked like he was about to cry; "He's been injured." Esme couldn't help but notice the unspoken 'again' riding the end of that sentence. He left quietly, holding his mother's hand.

"Did you make any friends?" Queen Magrat asked her daughter brightly when the ball was over. Esme cocked her head thoughtfully as she considered this; "I think so."

**TO BE CONTINUED**


End file.
